


The Last Glacial Epoch

by runningscissors



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Character Development, Gen, Introspection, Pre-Canon, Pre-film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningscissors/pseuds/runningscissors
Summary: "If there was one thing Kristoff had learnt from his years in the mountains, it’s that when you survive by the elements of nature nobody’s going to help you if you cannot help yourself. So Kristoff keeps his head down, keeps out of the way, keeps out of trouble, and works."
Kudos: 9





	The Last Glacial Epoch

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2014 but never posted. Found as I was cleaning out my dropbox draft folder.

There is a saying amongst the men at the camp, their faces grainy and worn from the years of the harvest that has always stuck with Kristoff. _Birds don’t fly into your mouth ready roasted,_ _boy,_ they’d call, sweat heavy on their brows and the sun warm on their necks as it rose in the morning sky.

So Kristoff pushed, pushed past the ache in his limbs and the sting of his raw cheeks, pushed till his hands were so numb the feeling had gone completely. Because if there was one thing Kristoff had learnt from his years in the mountains, it’s that when you survive by the elements of nature, nobody’s going to help you if you cannot help yourself. You cannot expect to get by in life without making some effort. So as the men at the camp took to the ale and the fire, he sharpened his tools – ready for the next dawn and the work that needed to be done.

And that was more than okay with him. It wasn’t like he’d ever had someone there to help him anyway, except for Sven (and maybe the trolls). In the mountains where life is a struggle to get by season to season, no one wants an extra mouth to feed, or clothe. It’s not like there’s anything special about his circumstances, a father he doesn’t remember, and a mother who died of consumption when he was too young to do anything but watch her waste away. He’s no stranger to adversity, to scraping by with next to nothing, but it’s something he never wants to live through again. He’d lived enough of his early youth with the constant ache of an empty stomach to know he’ll never let Sven and himself ever get like that again.

So Kristoff keeps his head down, keeps out of the way, keeps out of trouble, and works.

Jarle and Lars, who frequently sell ice in the market with him, laugh at how horrible he is with people, and he supposes they’re right. “You’re lucky your cuts are so good,” Jarle chuckles, “because your scowl could freeze the very fjord itself.” 

And maybe he has no “real connections” as Bulda chastised him about whenever he comes to visit, but what does that matter? He has nothing against the men he harvests with; they’re a nice enough sort to work alongside, but he certainly wouldn’t call any of them friends. The only thing he needs from people is for them to buy his ice.

Why should it matter anyway? Ice is his life.


End file.
